


And it all came tumbling down

by snarkymuch



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Everything is in vague terms, Gen, Implied Childhood Sexual Abuse, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Mentioned Skip Westcott, Past Child Abuse, Peter Needs a Hug, Tony Stark is Good With Kids, nothing graphic or explicit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-20
Updated: 2020-04-20
Packaged: 2021-03-01 21:55:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23754214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/snarkymuch/pseuds/snarkymuch
Summary: Skip is released on parole, and that breaks something in Peter. He begins to shut down again. Tony is there for him when he needs it.
Relationships: Peter Parker & Tony Stark
Comments: 29
Kudos: 323





	And it all came tumbling down

**Author's Note:**

> Heed the tags for triggers. There is discussion of child abuse and self-harm.

May wasn’t home when the call came, and Peter had answered the phone. There was no hesitation or prickling of his senses, nothing to signal how the one call would shatter his fragile world.

The voice on the other side of the phone had been cautious and polite, in a way that put him on edge. The woman asked for May but settled for Peter. He didn’t listen as she introduced and explained her position with the district attorney. The only part he heard was her saying, “Steven Wescott was paroled this morning.”

The words had stopped making sense after that. The edges of his vision darkened, and he swayed where he stood. He lowered the phone, sliding his finger over the button and hanging up. He didn’t need to hear more. Everything he’d tried to hide behind easy smiles and laughter bubbled up, threatening to consume him. Or maybe it already had, and there was nothing left. He felt hollow and dead, like something left to wither and dry out until all the life was gone.

He’d kept Skip tucked away in a box in his mind, one that he carefully avoided. He made sure to give anything that could jostle those memories a wide berth. May was good about it. She didn’t push. Once, she'd had Peter in therapy, and he did well. He smiled when he was supposed to and played games with his therapist. After a year, he didn’t need to go anymore. The therapist signed off on him. Little did they know, Peter was just good at acting. He didn’t want to be in therapy, not really. He didn’t want to talk about what had happened. He wanted to bury it, burn it, lock it up and never speak of it again, so yeah, he did what he needed to do.

Over the years, the nightmares grew less, and Peter could function more. Spider-Man was a good distraction, and Tony kept him busy. Little by little, he found a new normal and the little boy with the dark secrets, well, he got pushed aside, hidden in the recesses of his mind. Peter didn’t need him anymore. He could be strong, could take care of himself. He didn’t need to be reminded of his weakest points.

He just wanted to forget the boy who let Skip touch him. If he pushed it away, if he made himself forget, it would be like it never happened.

But it was all crashing apart now. The phone call tore open old wounds, raw and exposed nerves drowning him in pain that he wished to forget.

Skip was out of jail.

It wasn’t until his knees began to protest that he realized he’d somehow ended up on the floor in the kitchen. Nothing made sense around him. His lungs moved, but it didn’t feel like he was breathing. He felt small and alone, and like the little boy that he never wanted to be again.

His cellphone rang in his pocket, and he struggled to connect the dots, to move his hands and bring it to his face. He did, though, slowly, but he did.

It was May, and Peter wondered if she’d heard. It made sense that they’d call her too, especially after he’d hung up. He couldn’t talk right now, though, he didn’t have the words, but he knew if he didn’t answer, she’d just call again, maybe even come home, and she couldn’t do that. She needed her job.

With a shaky hand, he answered the call, lifting it to his ear.

“Peter,” May breathed, “Thank God. Ms. Foster said that she told you, but you hung up. I’ve been so worried. Peter, tell me you’re okay? Or tell me you’re not, and I’ll come home right now, job be damned.”

A tear slipped down his cheek as he shook his head. “No, it’s okay. I’m fine, really.”

“Oh, kiddo, nothing about this is fine.”

“Yeah, I know, but can we—can we pretend it is, though? Just—can we pretend it’s all okay for now?”

May sighed. “Maybe I should come home.”

“I don’t want you to lose your job. I’ll be okay. I just need—I need to think or something, get a grip on things.”

“I don’t like leaving you alone at a time like this. It’s not a big deal. I can cut out of work.”

His legs were going numb from being on the floor. “I’ll be okay. If it gets bad, I’ll call you.”

She was quiet for a moment but then agreed. “Call me later, okay?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll send you a text before bed.”

“Okay, sweetie. I love you.”

“Love you, too.”

He disconnected the call and stuffed the phone back in the pocket of his hoodie. Pushing himself onto numb legs, he wiped his eyes with the heels of his hands and went to put on the suit. Spider-Man was the furthest away he could get from the scared little boy inside him. Putting on the mask, that let him be something, that deep down, he knew he wasn’t—brave. 

* * *

Days passed, and nothing changed. Peter existed in a numb void, avoiding those around him. He didn’t answer Tony’s calls or reply to Happy’s texts. Whenever he caught May looking at him, there was sorrow in her eyes. Peter hated it. He hated that he had put it there. And it was him. Why couldn’t he just be better already? Why did he have to be so broken?

The little boy inside felt alone, and Peter turned his back.

* * *

Two weeks of emptiness and Peter felt no better. Skip was still out there. He didn’t know what he was supposed to feel, but he guessed it didn’t matter because he felt nothing. Sometimes he’d snap the rubber band on his wrist, just to feel something, even if for only a second. He worried about what might happen when the numbness lifted, and he felt again. He worried he would drown.

At one point, he put on his mask and asked Karen to search for Skip. She found him in minutes, living in an apartment not far enough away, but then again, he could be on the moon and still be too close. It didn’t really matter. At least Peter knew, though, and that settled something in him.

It was fine that he asked Karen to find him every day after that. It was reasonable to want to be sure. At least that’s what he told himself.

* * *

May all but pushed him out the door to Happy’s car. It was vacation week, and May had arranged with Tony that Peter would spend some time away from the city, like being upstate would somehow make the demons go away. The compound, the apartment, it didn’t make a difference where Peter was. He still felt dead, and the little boy haunting him still felt alone, waiting for someone to listen.

Peter pushed it all aside and went upstate. He could fake a smile and pretend. He’d done it as a child, and really, after a while, he started believing his own lies. Maybe faking it wasn’t so bad. Did it matter that a piece of him was still hurting, still waiting to be heard?

Peter sat at his workstation in the lab, snapping the rubber band on his wrist, the light sting reminding him he was alive, and that Skip was still out there. The little boy inside him curled into a ball, hiding his face. Peter shut the door on that room in his mind. Part of him knew he shouldn’t hide, that he should let that little boy have a voice, but he couldn’t do it. He needed to forget, maybe just as much as he needed to remember.

“Are you listening to anything I’m saying?”

Blinking, rubbed where the band had been snapping and looked at Tony. “I guess I didn’t hear you?”

“You say that like it’s a question, but I’m pretty sure you’ve been zoned out and ignoring me for the last ten minutes.”

“Oh, sorry.”

Tony tossed the piece of reactor back on the workbench, sticking his hands in his pockets and appraising Peter. His eyes seemed to settle on Peter’s hands, where he was fingering the rubber band.

“What’s with that?” Tony asked, nodding toward Peter’s hands. “Your wrist is red, kid. Don’t think I didn’t notice you snapping it.”

Peter moved his hands, balling his fists. He shook his head. “Nothing, it’s nothing, just a thing.”

“A thing?”

Peter looked away, grabbing a pen and twirling it between his fingers. “Yeah, a thing. It’s just an old habit, I guess.”

Really the rubber band was something that had come from therapy. It was a coping technique, something to do rather than hurting himself. Self-harm was something he’d dabbled in after Skip when everything was raw and numb at the same time. On days he couldn’t feel, it let him feel something, and on the days that he felt too much, like was spinning out of control, it grounded him. It was one of the few things therapy had helped with, one of the few things he hadn’t lied about, maybe because, at the time, he didn’t care enough to pretend differently. Either way, the rubber band was introduced, becoming an outlet when all else failed, and lately, he’d needed it.

“Wanna talk about it?”

“Not really,” Peter said, eyes on the pen as it danced between his fingers. He could feel Tony’s gaze on him, boring a hole right through him and into his soul, or whatever was left of it. He felt naked and exposed, like Tony could see it all if he wanted, and Peter wondered how true that was. What did he know? How much had he put together? Peter had never given him any clues, but Skip and what he’d done were in some file somewhere, just waiting to be seen. All Tony would have to do was look.

The little boy inside of Peter wished someone would, if only so he could be seen. The piece of him had been shunned so long, alone and abandoned, whenever he reached for it, all he felt was loneliness and hurt. Even in therapy, he had never put it to words. Only for the police had he said what had happened, and only then in the barest of terms. The piece of him needed to be listened to, needed to be allowed to cry, but that just wasn’t something Peter could do. He was too afraid because once he opened those gates, he might get washed away.

Tony grabbed a stool and dragged it to the middle of the room, just barely perching on it, so he was mostly just leaning. His hands were clasped in front of him, and his head was hung. There was something pained about his features, a sadness in the line of his mouth. Dread began to bubble up inside him. He didn’t know how or who told, but Peter would bet anything that Tony knew.

He snapped the band on his wrist.

Tony looked up, eyes full of sorrow. “I think maybe it’s time you did, though.”

“What are you talking about?” Peter tried to deflect, to get the ball back in his court.

“When May called to arrange this, she—” He shook his head, looking at the floor before flicking his gaze back at Peter. “She gave me a name.”

Gravity shifted, and Peter’s stomach dropped. He shook his head, fisting his hands. “She had no right.”

“Don’t be angry, Peter. She was worried.”

“What—do you know it all? Did you look it up? Of course, you did.” Peter threw the pen at the window and threaded his fingers in his hair. “I didn’t want you to know. No one should have to—” He made a pained noise, pulling at his hair.

He heard Tony get up and cross the room. Peter could smell his cologne and hear his heart beating too fast. Tears began to seep from his eyes, despite how tightly he had squeezed them shut.

“I didn’t look, Peter. I found the files, but I stopped. I just know—all I know is he hurt you. Please, believe me. I didn’t look.”

Peter dropped his hands and opened his eyes. His nose itched, and his cheeks were already damp with tears. “You didn’t—you didn’t read them?”

Tony shook his head. “I wouldn’t do that to you. I think—I think I know a little, though.”

“How?”

“He’s a registered sex offender.”

Peter bit his lip, nodding. “Yeah, that makes sense.”

“You know I’m here for you if you need anything. I promise you, nothing, nothing you could say would change how I think of you.”

Peter sniffled. “It happened a long time ago.”

“That doesn’t make it any less important. I’ll still listen, kiddo.”

Peter shook his head. “Maybe some time. I just can't right now.”

“Fair enough, just know I'm in your corner, kid. Day or night, you can come to me.”

* * *

Peter couldn’t sleep. He tossed and turned in the bed, but couldn’t settle down. The compound wasn’t home. No matter how nice it was, it wasn’t the same as his own bed, not that he’d be sleeping much better there, but at least he could escape out his window at home and go to the roof. He couldn’t see the stars from his apartment, but it didn’t keep him from looking up at the hazy sky.

He checked the time. It was after three, and he hadn’t slept yet. Sighing, he threw back his blankets and climbed from the bed, quietly padding out his room and into the hall. The lights were dimmed, only little nightlights illuminating the way. He didn’t know where he was going, but he just couldn’t stand being in his room any longer. He headed toward the living room, stopping when he got close. He could hear a heartbeat and the rustling of someone nearby.

The light was on in the room, but it was dimmed. Peter’s eye fell on the figure standing by the windows, silhouetted by the moonlight. From the line of the shoulders and messy hair, Peter knew it was Tony. He didn’t know if he was ready to face him again. After their talk in the lab, things had fallen into an awkward silence. Neither of them spoke, maybe because there just weren’t words. Peter had been thankful, though, that Tony hadn’t pushed because he wasn’t sure how he would have responded.

Peter took a few more steps into the room, keeping his gaze on Tony. The man dropped his head, and his shoulders fell, then he turned to Peter, shadows under his eyes. The corner of his mouth twitched like he was trying to smile but couldn’t.

Peter swallowed, flexing his hands at his sides. “Couldn’t sleep.”

Tony considered him for a moment before nodding. “That’s going around. You up for some company, or do you want me to leave?”

Peter blinked. “No, no, you can stay. I just couldn’t stay in my room anymore. The walls—they were closing in.”

Tony gestured to the couch, taking a seat himself. Peter hesitated for a moment but crossed the room and sat beside him, not close enough to be touching, but near enough that Peter could smell his cologne. It made his nose itch.

Peter kept his hands folded in his lap, his eyes averted. Silence settled around him, but it felt weighted and suffocating, filled with everything that he didn’t want to say, or maybe he did. He didn’t know what he wanted anymore.

“He was my babysitter,” Peter found himself saying, and quickly looked at Tony and then away again. “I thought he was my friend.”

Tony didn’t move, and Peter waited for him to say something, anything, or maybe nothing at all. He didn’t know which would be better.

“You didn’t know, Pete. You were just a kid, and even if you weren’t, it still wouldn’t have been your fault. That’s on him and only him.”

Peter looked at him, biting his lip. He nodded, glancing back down at his hands. “Yeah, I know. I know it wasn’t my fault. I mean, it’s never the kid’s fault, but—but I was scared, you know? That’s what I remember—being scared.”

Tony sighed, and Peter saw his hand curl into a fist and then spread back out. “I’m sorry you had to go through that. I think I would have been scared, too.”

“I doubted myself after—I still do. I mean, I thought he was nice. I trusted him. I should have known.”

“You couldn’t know, Pete.”

“Yeah, maybe.” Peter picked at his nails, digging at a hangnail until it started to bleed.

Tony gently took his hand and pulled it away. “Use the band, but don’t make yourself bleed—not for him.”

His throat began to feel tight, and he struggled to swallow; tears began to prick at his eyes. He sniffled, wiping the heel of his hand over his eyes.

“I’m tired, Mr. Stark—I’m so tired. I don’t want to feel like this anymore,” he confessed, that little piece of him, the little boy, finally getting a chance to speak.

“Can I hug you?” Tony asked, and Peter nodded, leaning into his side as Tony wrapped an arm around him. Peter melted into him. Tony was grounding. Tony was safe. Peter knew that he would never hurt him. 

He hiccoughed a sob, his tears soaking the fabric of Tony’s shirt. He rested there against him, shoulders shaking every so often from a sob he couldn’t hold back. When the tears finally slowed, he spoke against Tony’s chest, so low he doubted the man could hear him. “Can this be the part where things start getting better?”

Tony held him a little tighter, pressing his cheek against the top of Peter’s head. “Yeah, I think it can be.”

**Author's Note:**

> I really poured myself into this and used a lot of my own feelings from my experiences with abuse. My goal was to deal with the topic carefully and with respect. I hope I did that. Thanks and I would love to hear from you in comments or on my [tumblr](https://snarky-drabbles.tumblr.com/).


End file.
